D is for Dracula
by cepaul518
Summary: What happens when the iron will of D eventually cracks?
1. Contemplation

                The desert was not large, but it was still troublesome to cross.  Especially for him.  In spite of his—what had his parasite companion called it—oh yes, his "heat aversion", he halted his weary horse.  They were almost across the great expanse of burning sand, and the sun was coming to its peak.  A muffled voice erupted from his left hand.

                "D…what're you doing, D.  Do I have to remind you of the beef jerky theory?"

                The dunpeal ignored the protests and dismounted his horse.

                The silence.

                He took a moment to revel in it.  It was not as though he was in need of a bit of quiet time.  In fact, silence was abundant in his life…when his left hand was not chattering dramatically.  He patted his horse's neck.  A sudden hot breeze filtered its way down a large dune, causing his long dark cloak to billow.  Left Hand had a comment about that as well.

                "D, have you ever considered changing your sense of style?  It's been what…fifteen thousand years or so and you still insist on wearing that silly cape."  

D's sense of style may not have changed in fifteen thousand years, but his ability to ignore his companion had definitely developed.  He bent down to take a handful of sand, then straightened his svelte frame.  He looked out from under his wide brimmed hat at their destination on the horizon.  The town of Bosyant.  He exhaled silently and let the curiously soft quartz sand sift through his long fingers.  He considered the texture for a moment, still content in the silence of the great expanse…but the heat was beginning to beleaguer him now.  Left Hand could feel it, too.

"Come on, D.  Enough playing around, we've got a job to do."

The vampire hunter nodded and re-mounted his cybernetic horse with a great flourish of his cloak, almost mocking what his parasite had commented on earlier.

"Smartass," came a mumble.  D tightly grasped the reins to prevent any further remarks, and spurred his horse towards the small industrial town. 


	2. History and Redemption

            D was old.  _Very_ old.  Although his age wasn't apparent in his physical features, he was profoundly plagued with an aching mental weariness.  His several millennia in existence were gradually weighing him down.  Left Hand had asked him several times over the years how long he was planning on keeping this up.

            "As long as I have to," was always the reserved, quiet reply.

            A half-vampire, half-human dunpeal such as D had many advantages.  He maintained an ageless state, the ability to regenerate wounded tissue, and incredible strength.  Unfortunately, the bad came with the good.  His life was more or less condemned with the fact that those he cared about would sooner or later be gone.  That being the case, he made it a point to never develop an attachment to anyone.  Ever.

            That was another topic Left Hand brought up much too frequently.  The parasite's constant questioning of D's non-existent love life was exasperating.  Those were usually the times that D ensured the horse's rein was tightly wound around his left palm.  There was no sense in discussing an irrelevant matter.

            The blood passion typical of a vampire was what concerned him most.  Being that he was not a full-blooded vampire, the passion—the lust—could be suppressed.  He could resist his impulses to drink the blood of others, yes…but he hated himself.  He despised himself for even feeling the mere intrigue of it.  The slightest desire.  Each time he felt it, he was reminded of the worst part that made him what he was.

            "But it's not the worst part of you," Lefty constantly reassured him.  "Without it, you'd just be another ordinary ol' human.  You'd have died ages ago.  You wouldn't have the same place in life you do now—you _save_ people, D."

            D.

            His abbreviated namesake.  The irony that was D's life sickened him.  The infamous Prince Vlad Dracula had been his father, and Lefty supposed the sense of purpose that D had found was his way of redeeming his father's carnal, bloodthirsty sins…making right all the wrong.  It was known that Dracula had killed somewhere between forty and a hundred thousand people during his reign of Walachia in the 1400s.  D apparently felt he had a very long way to go in order to make that up.  

He took full responsibility for his father's insufferable actions.  He did not make demands of those who hired him for his services.  Perhaps deep down he felt that he had no real right to do so.  No price was ever set.  He only took what was offered.  If large bounties were presented, he accepted.  If the payment was nothing more than a place to stay and warm meals, he would not insist for more.  He merely stayed his silent ways, accomplished his duties, and left.  It was a very basic, very uncomplicated plan. 

D simply knew what the point of his existence was.  And he fulfilled it.  Quite well.


End file.
